


Achy Breaky Heart

by zatannazatara



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Getting Together, M/M, Mullets, References to Drugs, Tim Drake is gay, bruce makes a cameo appearance, jason has a questionable kink, they don't use them they're just fighting crime, this would be crack if i didnt take mullets so seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29952174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zatannazatara/pseuds/zatannazatara
Summary: Tim has a mullet. Jason suffers.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 4
Kudos: 74





	Achy Breaky Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to formally apologize to those of you who are not attracted to mullets or 80s fashion. Perhaps this fic will change your mind, or maybe it will just reinforce a very valid aversion to such things. Mullets are back and I am obsessed, so this is for my fellow JayTim fans who enjoy slightly ludicrous set-ups to sex. 
> 
> Also, have not posted a fic here in like 8 years. Hopefully it makes some sense and is not terrible. Enjoy!

Jason stumbles across the tell-tale signs of a fight – loud grunts, cursing, gunshots – while running full-steam toward a darkened alley in _his_ neighbourhood. He had been tracking these gangsters for weeks, had only just beaten the location of their hideout from a snitch twenty minutes ago, and refuses to have his territory encroached on _again_ by stupid Bats and his stupid Birds.

And, fine, okay? Jason is on better terms with everyone now, ever since Dick forced a ‘family bonding’ event about a year ago at the Manor that involved popcorn, a whole lot of swearing, and one very awkward group hug. The whole Bat clan hadn’t been there – his replacement, notably, was missing that night, as was Babs – but it had been…good, or at least a good start. But Jason is still independent, he has his own beat that he outlined the boundaries of _very clearly_ to Batman on pain of serious injury, and he prefers to deal with lowlife scum on his streets by himself. Jason doesn’t think it was too much to ask that they leave him the hell alone, in spite of the proverbial hatchet being buried.

The lights inside the old shop front are out, but Jason knows – can fucking _hear the fighting,_ fuck you Bruce – that the speakeasy built below it in the early 1920s housed Jason’s latest targets. Gritting his teeth, Jason kicks the door of the shop in, marches to the back room and proceeds down a flight of stairs hidden behind a false wall. While normally he might spare half a second or so to thinking out his attack – and escape – plan, he knows the element of surprise is lost and so, with little grace and maximal anger, Jason kicks the door to the speakeasy-turned-hideout in. He’s met with a group of seven gangsters – plus four unconscious on the floor – pointing their guns up at the ceiling, though a few turn to train their weapons on the Red Hood in surprise. Jason looks up and spots his gatecrasher.

“Hood,” Red Robin acknowledges, perched atop the rafters. “They’ve been dealing with the Maronis.” And that’s enough to stop Jason’s tirade about interfering Robins.

“Well, shit.” Jason moves just as an acidic bullet lodges itself in the doorframe, missing his helmet by a split second. The green chemical starts burning a hole through the wall, but the Red Hood is already descending upon the shooter boot-first.

The Maroni crime family has been a major pain in the collective Bat-Ass for decades. Salvatore, the head of the family, is untouchable, and no matter how many of his cronies are put away there’s always more to take their place. Normally Jason enjoys kicking criminal ass more than anything, but the problem with the Maronis are their _fucking goddamn acid guns._ It’s such a bizarre trademark, but it makes it about ten times harder to get near them when they’re waving those things around. The Kevlar can take a bullet – hell, _Jason_ can take a bullet – but the green acid will eat through just about anything. It’s kind of a major buzzkill.

Though Jason will never admit it, the takedown is a hell of a lot easier with Red Robin in the mix. Despite possession of Maroni weapons, these thugs clearly have little actual experience dealing with Gotham vigilantes. Through unspoken agreement, Red Hood draws as much of the fire as possible while Red Robin picks them off one by one, disappearing and reappearing from the shadows like a true Bat Prodigy. It makes Jason a little irrationally jealous, Drake’s grace and stealth so unlike his own brash fighting style, so he takes an extra moment to break a third rib on the guy in front of him. Between the two of them, Hood and Robin manage to subdue the gangsters with relative ease, though Jason did get nicked in the arm with a bullet. Ignoring the burn, Jason takes aim with one last kick at the guy who shot him and cracks his kneecap for good measure. He hears a sigh from the corner of the room, and turns to meet Red Robin.

Jason doesn’t hold as much resentment for Tim Drake as he once did, the lingering crazy of the Lazarus pit having dissipated mostly over time and through extensive self-discovery. He still makes a conscious effort to avoid him whenever possible, because Jason’s not really sure what he’d even _say_ to the replacement if he ever actually had to hold a conversation with him, and he appreciates that it appears Drake is doing the same to him. Jason hasn’t so much as heard the name Tim Drake in more than a year; he’s never at the Manor whenever Jason makes a _very_ occasional appearance, and the Red Hood doesn’t cross paths with him on patrol nearly as often as he does Robin or Batgirl or Nightwing. Whether intentional or not, Jason has been given enough space to cool his jets over the whole ‘replacement’ thing. Mostly. It helps that Drake, too, has been replaced as Robin. Difficult to hold a grudge over something that’s not really benefitting Drake anymore. Still, it doesn’t mean he has to be nice to the kid.

“Red Robin,” Hood speaks through the helmet, giving his voice a graveled, robotic tone. “Fuck off.”

The snort is unexpected – Jason is used to Drake’s shackles rising any time Jason so much as sneers in his direction. That’s the way it used to be between them, trading vicious insults and sharp, flying projectiles. Maybe the space has been good for him too.

“I didn’t mean to cross over into your territory, Hood. I was tracking an arms shipment from Detroit that led me here, meant it to be recon only.” Drake walks toward Jason with purpose, cape sweeping the floor behind him. Drake still wears that ridiculous cowl; it looks like a black condom on his head. Jason tells him as much, but Red Robin just grabs him by the arm to inspect the burning graze. “That’s going to keep eating into your shoulder if you don’t rinse it out, I’ll help you patch it up.”

Jason snatches his arm back, fighting a flinch at the burst of pain that accompanies it, and replies, “Not a chance in hell, Replacement. Just keep out of my way next time.” And, okay, maybe that was a little unnecessarily rude, but it’s easy to fall back into old habits.

Jason leaves the way he came in, up through the shop and out into the dark alley, supporting his burning shoulder with a gentle hand under his elbow. Drake will call the GCPD, he’s not bothered to do it himself. Jason figures he has about ten minutes to treat this thing before his arm starts going numb, so he takes off in the direction of his nearest safehouse at a jogging pace. Certainly not the worst injury he’s ever had, not by a longshot, but the smaller the chunk eaten out of his arm the better, generally. Jason rounds the corner of 111th, his arm starting to hurt something of a bitch now. Fucking Maroni and his goddamn piece of shit acid bullets. How does he even make those things?! Note to self, find Salvatore Maroni and kick his head in at earliest opportunity.

The sound of the Red Hood’s heavy boots hitting the pavement echo around the narrow street as Jason nears his front door. His arm feels like it’s going to fall off soon, so he’s glad to be fishing a lone key out of a pocket on his cargo pants as he stops in front of the door. The building is old and run-down, his typical choice of safehouse location. Jason’s flat is on the top floor of the short apartment complex, at the end of a hallway decorated with rotting carpets and peeling walls. He’s been favouring this location as of late because the old woman who runs the Polish bakery on the corner gives him free pierogies whenever he stops in. She’s sweet, and the quality of the cooking alone is enough to make Jason want to move in here permanently. There are no cameras in this neighbourhood, and he’s only ever seen one other tenant coming and going, so Jason can comfortably use the front door when he’s too fucked up to make it through the window.

He regrets his choice not to scale the building’s crumbling exterior, however, when his peripheral catches Red Robin dismounting from a motorcycle on the street behind him. He hadn’t even heard him pulling up.

“Jesus, fuck! How is that thing so quiet? Never mind, I don’t care, go home.” Jason growls, unlocking the door to the three-storey walk-up and slipping quickly through the doorway. Drake, not one to take a hint, follows closely behind and lets it shut behind him.

“Electric bike,” Drake responds, not being at all subtle about the eye he’s giving Jason’s arm. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling flicker, casting them in and out of shadow. “New and improved R-Cycle. I can see about getting you one if you want, they’re pretty stealthy.”

Jason shoves Drake into the wall with his good hand, pinning him with a stare. “You parked an _R-Cycle_ outside my apartment? Are you fucking crazy? They may not notice me sneaking in and out, but someone is bound to notice a bike with the word _Robin_ plastered all over the side of it.”

“Incognito mode. Batman has been experimenting with the Amazonian tech Wonder Woman uses for her jet. I’m not an idiot, Hood.” Drake is calm. He’s also, Jason now notices, using their increased proximity to get a closer look at the acid eating through Jason’s arm. “Dick is going to read me the riot act if he finds out I left you with a burn this bad. Spare me the lecture and let me help you.”

Jason stares at him for a beat longer before spinning on his heel and continuing toward the stairwell. He’s resigned to Drake helping him, in part because he knows he’s in no condition to physically throw him out but also because he won’t be able to get his own jacket off with how the leather is melted into his arm. Drake is annoying and persistent and Jason vows not to hesitate to kick him in the balls if he so much as insinuates that Jason _needs_ his help.

Thankfully, Drake stays silent behind him the entire way up the stairs, out and down the hallway, and into the apartment. Without ceremony, Jason rips off his helmet with one hand and collapses onto the couch. Drake immediately takes a knife and cuts the right arm of his jacket away, gently prying off the leather stuck to his skin with the flat of the blade. Drake gets up again without another word and Jason grabs the bottle of whiskey, always in arm’s reach, from the coffee table. He takes a long swig.

“Get on with it, Drake,” Jason says, closing his eyes and resting his head on the couch’s backrest. Jason hears him searching the apartment for a first aid kit, running water into a bowl and retrieving clean towels from the cupboard above the refrigerator. The ghost of footsteps and rustle of fabric suggest that Drake is taking off that ridiculous cowl and cape. A dip in the couch beside him and the cooling sensation of water running over his arm prompts Jason to sigh.

“You know,” Drake says beside him, “it’s technically Drake-Wayne now. Tim is easier, way less syllables.”

Drake – Tim, _whatever_ – continues scooping cold water from the glass bowl and pouring it over the burn, a towel wrapped just below it to catch the water before it bleeds onto the couch. With a snort, Jason opens his eyes to look at Tim and the retort forming on his tongue gets caught in his throat.

Tim looks, well, _older_. His brown eyes are sharp and calculating, framed by high cheekbones and strong eyebrows. There’s something cold and serious about Tim now, his face a perfect balance of angles and shadows. Jason realizes he can’t even remember the last time he actually saw Tim; has he even seen him properly since Bruce returned? Jason’s idea of Tim in his head – a hyperactive kid with shaggy hair and an inquisitive smile – seems at odds with the man sitting across from him now. There’s no hint of smile lines on Tim’s face, just a strong jaw held in tension as he focuses on cleaning out Jason’s wound. Jason is about to find his voice again when Tim turns his head slightly to grab another towel and Jason catches full view of his hair.

The only way to describe it is a _mullet._ Business in the front, party in the back, full-on 1980s mullet. Tim’s black hair is wavy, the barely-there curls of his bangs sticking with sweat to his forehead. It looks like he ran a hand through his hair to alleviate some of the flattening that the cowl would’ve done to it. The sides are short – not shaved – and the back is longer and curls up right at the base of Tim’s neck. It’s unbearably hot, in a completely nonsensical way that has Jason’s world spinning. Is a mullet _supposed_ to be attractive? He wracks his brain for famous mullets, but only comes up with Billy Ray Cyrus who is decidedly _not hot_ and Jason is once again at a loss for words. At least this total loss of cognitive function, not to mention the growing weight in Jason’s pants, is proving to be a great distraction from the pain in his arm, but he’s not really sure how to proceed from here. Jason can’t stop staring and he’s half-afraid his brain will, entirely without his permission, reach a hand up to _touch_ it _,_ fucking hell.

Tim catches Jason staring at his hair and immediately blushes. “Steph – uh, Batgirl – told me to do it. Apparently it’s in right now? I don’t know. I needed a change and she’s terrifyingly persuasive. Worst friend ever.”

Jason’s mouth is dry. “It – uh – it’s fine.” He clears his throat and asks, “How much longer is this going to take?” He wants to sound impatient, aggressive, but it comes out low and husky. _Fuck._

If Tim notices Jason struggling, he graciously doesn’t mention it. “You’re lucky, it’s not nearly as bad as it looked. You should thank that jacket, it probably saved your arm. I’ll bandage it up and get out of your hair.” Jason nearly chokes at the mention of hair, but nods silently and averts his gaze to stare at the bottle of whiskey on the table. He is getting so drunk after this.

Once Tim is done bandaging his arm, he does indeed get up and leave. He crawls out the window, more sensitive to Jason’s secrecy now that there’s no medical urgency, and leaves Jason alone with a mostly-useless arm and some obscenely filthy fantasies involving assless chaps and gratuitous cowboy euphemisms.

This is going to be a long night.

xx

Over the next week and a half, Jason tries to forget about the mullet. Really, truly, he tries his absolute fucking damnedest to focus on anything but that ridiculous, mouth-watering haircut. Unfortunately, all of this sudden attention his brain is paying to the replacement only forces Jason to admit that the rest of Tim is equally as hot as his goddamn haircut. His dreams are filled with a soft, urging voice, dark chocolate eyes and a slender frame. He lies awake on the coach, police scanner spitting out codes unworthy of the Red Hood’s attention, and imagines what this new Tim Drake could do to him, a ruthless and uncompromising bed partner. It’s agonizing and tantalizing in turns, and Jason stops trying to figure out how he went so far off the fucking deep end the second his orgasm hits that first night.

He lets his arm heal for a couple of days, and when he can finally rotate it fully he goes out and tries to solve the issue with excessive violence. Kicking assholes to kingdom come has rarely failed Jason in his attempts to work through his issues. It, of course, doesn’t work, and when he gets back to his apartment he sits on the same couch Tim had patched him up on and works his cock so hard he sees stars. The next night he goes straight to a bar, finds a slight, dark-haired man and blows him in the bathroom. It feels wrong, the man gripping his hair doesn’t have the strength Tim would have and _his_ hair is all wrong anyway, so he goes home and works the punching bag in his bedroom so hard he collapses into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

It doesn’t stop as the week passes. Jason slowly continues to lose his mind over this godforsaken haircut, so much so that he considers calling in for a consultation at Arkham, and can’t tell whether he wants to see Tim again or avoid him for the rest of his life.

This particular Sophie’s Choice is, as with everything, unilaterally decided by the machinations of Bruce fucking Wayne. A few weeks ago, Jason had informed Bruce of a troubling influx of ecstasy – if you could even call it that, it’s cut with so much crap it’s basically meth – and asked him to keep an eye out for any information so he could cut the supply off at the source. He normally hated asking anything of Bruce, but too many kids were overdosing in clubs on his watch for Jason’s pride to get in the way. Bruce called this morning with a reliable lead:

“It appears to be coming out of Gotham University, try the frat houses. I would have given this over to Tim but you said you wanted to deal with it yourself. I’m trusting you with this Jason, get it done.”

Jason had felt the usual pang of anger at the idea of Bruce handing over his case before his brain caught up. _Why_ would Bruce hand this over to Tim? It’s not like it’s anywhere near his usual beat, and Jason knows more about the case than anyone. He shrugs it off and attributes it to Bruce’s general mystery, and favouritism, putting off the question without much thought.

The answer, of course, presents itself when Jason pays Gotham U a visit and stumbles across Tim chatting with a pretty girl in the quad. Jason can’t help but give Tim a once-over, drinking in the sight of a week’s worth of sexual fantasies. Tim’s dressed down in dark jeans and a dress shirt, cuffs rolled up around his forearms in response to the midday heat. Tim’s hair somehow looks _better_ in the light of day, the obsidian mop on top of his head drinking in sunlight like an eager vortex of life-ruining curls. Without the cowl and, Jason imagines, with the benefit of a shower, Tim’s hair is voluminous and styled. Tim looks so good it’s _heartbreaking_ , and before the conscious part of Jason’s brain can catch up his feet have dragged him over to stand by his side.

“Tim,” Jason greets, hoping he’s adequately hiding how much he’s suffering on the inside. The man spins around in surprise and opens his mouth to reply, but his friend beats him to it.

“Wow, Tim, who’s your friend?” She asks, smiling up at Jason with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“He’s, uh –”

“I’m an old friend,” Jason interrupts, grinning lazily. In a moment of total insanity, Jason throws an arm around Tim’s shoulders. _What the fuck are you doing?! I will kill myself to stop this from happening, I swear to God._ “Mind if I borrow him for a bit?” She shakes her head, raises an amused eyebrow at Tim and bids him farewell. Jason pulls Tim away and has to consciously force himself to remove the offending arm.

“You _go here_?” Jason hisses just as Tim, at the same time, says, “What are you doing here?” They stare at each other for moment, then begin to walk directionless across campus muttering to each other.

“I stepped down from Wayne Tech after Bruce got back, I wanted to go to school. I started last year. Why are _you_ here?”

“Following a lead on a drug ring, obviously.”

“The overdoses? I’ve been looking into it but B told me to drop it, guess I know why.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been trying to figure out how to get into a frat party tonight but people are being weirdly square about it.”

“ _Square_? Okay, grandpa. But yeah, you need a student ID to get in, stupid new rule to try and get the parties under control. I can go and check it out for you if you want.”

“Fat chance, Replacement. We’ll go together, might need you to let me in through a window or something. Tonight?”

“Ten o’clock, meet me by the south building and we’ll walk down together.”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

Jason makes an abrupt left and circles back toward his truck. He tries to ignore the butterflies making home in the pit of his stomach.

xx

Jason spends the rest of the afternoon trying – and failing – to talk himself out of going to this party, but his dedication to closing the case overrides the panic. He’s not even sure what he’s so freaked out about, it’s not like he’s in love with the kid or anything. He is a little concerned about what Bruce will do to him if he finds out Jason’s been masturbating to the thought of his prodigious son laid out naked on his bed like some wanton, mulleted pornstar, but he figures that if he can keep his actual hands off of Tim he should be safe from castration via Batarang. All he has to do is get in, crack some skulls, and get out before he has time to even _look_ at Tim. Maybe Jason will get lucky and the replacement will wear a hat or something.

Perhaps predictably, Tim does _not_ wear a hat. In fact, it appears that Tim is doing everything in his power to ensure Jason becomes Batman’s first murder. Tim’s t-shirt is black and so tight it looks painted on, doing nothing to hide the strength of his arms and the hard lines of his abs. The shirt is tucked into jeans that are acid wash, for Christ’s sake, and Jason wonders desperately if he should send Batgirl a bouquet to thank her for an outfit she clearly put together. The jeans hug lean legs and flare out over dark boots, boots with a fucking _heel,_ and Jason has to pause and scrub a hand over his face just to process it all. Tim looks like a gay ‘80s nightmare and Jason has never had to fight so hard against an erection in his entire life.

Tim greets him with a nod before reaching into his back pocket, pulling out an ID card and offering it over. Jason is pretty sure he’ll spontaneously combust if he has to see Tim’s ass in those pants so he accepts the card from a safe distance. He pays it enough attention to see his face and a fake name printed across it.

“Figured I’d just make you an ID, they’re pretty easy to forge and we’ll get less questions this way.” Tim jerks his head, presumably in the direction of the party, and indicates for Jason to follow him. They walk, and Jason lights a cigarette for something to do. He takes a long drag and glances sidelong at Tim, mesmerized by the short locks of hair curling around the shell of his ear. Jason decides not to mention the fact that, with an ID of his own, Tim doesn’t need to come to the party with him.

They walk toward the frat house in contented silence, Tim with both hands in his pockets and Jason using every ounce of his willpower not to jump him. Jason has long-since given up trying to justify this newfound attraction, or any unexplainable feelings he has on the day-to-day, having come to a point in his life where he’s learned to reliably trust his own feelings. Whether he should be _acting on_ these feelings is an entirely other issue, but Jason is slowly realizing with a detached horror that he may be willing to risk Bruce’s wrath for one disgustingly glorious night with Tim.

Tim interrupts Jason’s rapidly derailing train of thought. “I think we should have a gameplan, but I don’t want to monopolize your mission. Any particular way you want to tackle this?”

Jason has to focus for a moment to clear his head. “Split up, look for the dealer, regroup? If he’s got a big enough stash on him, we should just deal with it there.”

Tim looks concerned and runs a hand through his hair. Jason grits his teeth and looks forward. They’re getting close to the frat house, the rhythmic thud of bass discernable even from this distance.

“I don’t want to hospitalize a stupid kid for selling E at a party. Let’s just see what we’re dealing with before we start breaking kneecaps, Jay.”

_Jay, Jay, Jay, Jay._ The nickname sends Jason into a tailspin. There’s a part of him that feels like he should be angry at the familiarity with which Tim is addressing him, but the heat pooling in his abdomen sends a different message. It’s _hot_ and Jason can hear Tim moaning that name in his mind and all it would take is shoving him into one of these alcoves and –

“ID.” A deep voice that doesn’t belong to Tim or Jason shatters the daydream and Jason realizes with a start that they’ve reached the front door. Tim is holding his ID out in front of him, raising his eyebrows in a beg for Jason to do the same. Fumbling a little with the card he presents it, and whatever frat douche was elected to man the door lets them in with a grin.

The house, dark except for strobe lights going off in all directions, is packed wall-to-wall with college students drinking like it’s going out of fashion. There’s a makeshift dance floor in the large open room to the right, beer pong in another room off of the kitchen, and plenty of people chatting in the hallway and on the staircase. The music isn’t anything Jason is familiar with, but it’s so loud it almost doesn’t matter what it is. Not one to miss out on a good time, Jason plucks a beer from the guy pumping the keg and downs it in one. He looks over at Tim who’s giving him and the empty cup in his hand an exasperated look. Feeling a little more at ease, Jason leans down to speak into Tim’s ear.

“I’m blending in, Replacement. Loosen up a little. I’ll take the upstairs, meet you back down here.” Jason can’t – wouldn’t ever in his life _want_ to – ignore the way Tim stiffens at the closeness and the hot breath of Jason’s words in his ear. With a parting wink, Jason bounds up the stairs and shifts his attention back onto the mission at-hand. He walks through each room with deliberate caution, looking out for any suspicious behaviour. He has to pull a couple of drunk assholes off of girls, and spends a pleasant few minutes chatting up a pretty blonde with stunning curves and half a marketing degree, but eventually accepts that if drugs are changing hands, it isn’t happening up here.

Jason heads back downstairs, still keeping a careful eye out for their dealer, and hopes Tim had better luck. Weaving through the mass of drunk, gyrating students, Jason eventually spots Tim leaning against a wall on the far side of the large living room, a red cup thoughtlessly held by the rim as he stares at a fixed point in the centre of the dance floor. Jason tries to make out who he’s staring at, but with all the movement and strobing lights it’s impossible to make out a clear target. Instead, Jason shoves his way through the crowd and approaches Tim. Taking advantage of the opportunity, and maybe pushing his luck a little, Jason leans over Tim’s smaller frame and bends down to speak into his ear again.

“Who is it?” Jason breathes, so softly he isn’t even sure Tim can hear him over the music. Tim replies by touching a light hand to Jason’s arm, just below the healing burn he’d bandaged a little under a week ago, shifting him slightly to keep his sightline clear. Tim leaves his hand there and Jason feels it like a brand.

“Two o’clock. Green hat, black jacket. He can barely stay upright; I don’t think he’s our mastermind. He’s been bragging pretty loudly about his hookup, though.”

With a shiver he doesn’t bother to conceal, Jason tells Tim to meet him outside in five before he pushes himself off the wall and goes in search of green hat, black jacket. Now that he has a description, the man is embarrassingly easy to spot. The guy is jumping around like a jackass, moving so erratically he almost knocks over three different people in the span of about fifteen seconds. Jason makes his way over, does a quick bump-and-grab to lift the bag of pills from his pocket, and quickly makes his escape out of the kitchen door at the back of the house. He starts walking back toward the main campus, confident that Tim will catch up. He lights another cigarette.

“Did you swipe the pills?” Tim asks, slowing down from a light jog to walk at Jason’s side. Through the tab between his lips Jason hums his agreement, lightly patting the front pocket of his jacket to indicate their location. “Good. I don’t think he managed to pass many off, he only just arrived by the time you found me.”

That is reassuring, and makes Jason feel a bit better about leaving the party. He’ll track down green hat, black jacket as the Hood tomorrow night and get the supplier’s name; he doesn’t think Frat Bro will take much convincing.

Jason’s motorcycle is parked in the lot just past the café on the other side of campus, so he ends up walking Tim to his car as it’s on the way. Despite unfettered access to the Wayne fortune, Jason is surprised to find that Tim is driving a pretty low-profile BMW. It looks about fifteen years old, and while it’s certainly the kind of car Jason would have boosted growing up it’s nothing compared to what he knows is locked up in the garage under Wayne Manor.

“Daddy not letting you drive the Porsche to school?” Jason asks, grinning when Tim throws him a disgusted look.

“First of all, call Bruce _Daddy_ again and I’ll break your nose,” Tim replies, and Jason howls with laughter. “ _Secondly_ , I like this car, nobody asks me how much I paid for it and I can do all the maintenance myself.”

Jason licks his lips. “You work on cars?”

“I work on _my_ car. What difference does it make?”

“None, really. It’s pretty hot, though.” It slips out before Jason even really realizes he’s said it, but rather than do anything suave or productive like suck Tim off against the hood of his car Jason just clears his throat and starts walking away slowly. “I’ll, uh, call you if I figure out where this shit is going down.”

If Tim finds it odd that Jason is voluntarily inviting him to a drug bust, or that he just called him _hot_ , he thankfully doesn’t call Jason out on it. “Oookay, just – erm – yeah, call me…I guess.” Jason misses the blush that blooms across Tim’s face because he’s already booking it in the direction of his bike. _Jason Todd, total fucking jackass._

Jason races home, has a scalding hot shower, and doesn’t even pretend to picture anyone other than Tim as his groan of release echoes off the tiled walls.

xx

As much as Jason is caught up in thinking about all the ways he might be able to seduce Tim into sleeping with him, he does put the helmet on and go scare the living shit out of their dealer the next day. Jason is equally pleased and furious to discover that the apparent source of the drugs is one of the Russo brothers, who’ve been known to deal with the Maronis in matters of guns and drugs in the past. _Fucking Maroni_. At least they’ve got a target now.

The day passes at a glacier’s pace and it drives Jason slowly up the wall. At about four o’clock he reaches peak insanity, tempted to throw out any semblance of game and invite Tim over with a phone call and a simple “Hey pal! Wanna fuck?” And Jason has to give credit to the depth of his insanity because he actually does hover a finger over the call button with every intention of, at the very least, having very explicit phone sex with Tim.

Thankfully, Jason still maintains a tenuous connection to reality, so he texts – not calls – Tim, gives him a time and location for the drug bust, and then hurls his phone at the wall with enough force to crack it in half so that he’s not tempted to say anything else.

“Totally rational, Todd.” Jason mutters to himself. He dresses methodically for the mission, straps and zippers coming together with the ease of repetition, and tries to put his mind right in preparation for the night ahead. He scoops up his helmet, marches into the main room and sits himself down on the couch, watching the clock tick on.

Nightfall comes quicker than Jason expects, and before he has time to worry about whether close proximity to Tim’s hair will cause him to slip up and get himself stabbed, he’s joined by Red Robin on the roof of an old boxing gym. A bit of tension bleeds out of Jason as he comes out of a crouch to meet Tim, realizing that he can’t actually _see_ the offending mullet underneath the cowl.

“They’re working with the Maronis, because no one in this goddamn city has any originality, so we can’t take down the whole op tonight.” Jason cracks the knuckles of his hand against the inside of his opposite palm while Red Robin stands eerily still in front of him. “I let Batman know, he’ll add the intel to his file and have Robin stake out the docks. He greenlit our takedown tonight though, not that I needed his fuckin’ permission.”

Tim clearly knows this already, but nods in acknowledgement anyway. “Five in the main gym, another two in the office. Should be pretty straightforward, I don’t think they’re expecting trouble tonight.”

Feeling bold, Jason says, “Odd number. Loser buys dinner?”

The Red Robin mask cracks and Jason is rewarded with a small upturn of lips, an almost-smile. “Just try not to get shot again, Hood.”

“Aw, fuck off,” Jason replies, but Tim’s already disappearing through the rooftop door. Grumbling, Jason fires a grappling hook at the ledge of the building and swings in through the window, shattering the pane to the surprise of the cronies within. Time to get to work.

xx

Jason is pulling the zip tie on the last thug tight against the man’s wrists when he feels Red Robin at his back.

“Looks like I’m buying,” Tim says with a tone of amusement. Jason grins freely beneath the cover of his helmet.

“In your defence, that motherfucker you took down at the end there was about triple the size of any of my guys.”

Tim laughs and it’s sort of beautiful. “Just take the win, Hood. Your place in an hour?”

Jason smiles wickedly, for once wishing his expression could be visible behind his mask. He tries to put it into his voice when he replies, “Don’t be late.” Tim gives him a lazy salute and disappears into the shadows.

There isn’t much left to do once the GCPD are called, so Jason makes his escape as soon as he hears the sirens rounding the corner. He jogs all the way to his safehouse, the same one Tim had patched him up in last week, trusting the rhythmic beat of his boots hitting the pavement to temper the fluttering in his stomach. It’s not nerves – Jason Todd doesn’t _get_ nervous – but he’ll admit that he does feel a sense of…anticipation. If Jason was any less self-assured, he’d be concerned that his attraction to Tim is one-sided. But Tim and Jason are having dinner, which is sort of date-like, and Jason is like 70% sure he caught Tim eyeing him up at that frat party last night, so if Jason can put the moves on he’s fairly confident in his chances of getting laid tonight. And, yeah, Tim Drake is a whip-smart, filthy rich, charmingly handsome deadly weapon who probably deserves more than a one-night stand and whatever disgusting microbrew Jason has left in his fridge, but he’s long-since learned not to dwell on things that are out of his control.

Shouldering open his front door, Jason correctly assumes that he’s beaten Tim to the apartment. He gives the open living room a sweeping once over while he kicks off his boots and peels off his gloves, tossing them on to the table in the corner reserved for his vigilante gear. It’s covered in blood and ash and gunpowder, which is probably gross and definitely unhygienic, but it’s sort of hidden in the shadow of his bookshelf so he can mostly ignore the mess in his off-hours. Tim, who probably keeps his place like serial killer clean, will just have to deal with Jason’s particular brand of organized chaos. Jason quickly goes to the bathroom to relieve himself and splash some water on his face, wash his hands. He’ll never admit it, but Jason does look at himself in the mirror and try to fix the helmet hair, runs a hand over the stumble on his jaw and debates a quick shave. Jason is trying to convince himself that Tim’s opinion of him doesn’t matter – that it has never mattered – but he knows he’s lying to himself.

Inside of an hour, Tim announces his arrival like a true Bat prodigy, in that he says nothing at all and makes no noise entering the apartment through the kitchen window. Jason doesn’t jump when he re-enters the living space, but it’s a close thing. Jason deftly undoes the straps on his vest, letting the Kevlar melt off his shoulders before tossing it over the back of the couch. Tim, who had taken the opportunity to change out of his spandex ( _shame_ ) and into a more respectable t-shirt and sweatpants, tracks Jason’s movements with shameless intrigue. Jason smirks and Tim holds up the takeout bag wordlessly.

“That was fast,” Jason comments, heading over to the fridge. “Beer?” Tim shakes his head so Jason takes one out for himself, popping the cap off by placing the mouth of the bottle on the counter’s edge and striking down with a quick fist.

“Thanks, but I don’t drink,” Tim says with an amused smile. He sets the takeout bag down on the kitchen counter and starts rummaging through the kitchen cupboards for plates. Jason takes the opportunity to check Tim out when he bends down to check the bottom cabinets. Tim catches him in the act, looking over his shoulder with an arched eyebrow, but Jason just grins at him.

“At all? Is that a Bruce-ism or do you just enjoy being a wet blanket?”

Tim laughs and starts unpacking the takeout. “My body is a temple,” he says sagely, in what Jason realizes belatedly is supposed to be an impression of Bruce. Tim flips the lid open on the first container to reveal the greasiest burger Jason’s ever seen.

“A steady diet of leafy greens and justice don’t do it for you either, huh?” Jason digs into his burger without ceremony. Tim is slightly more delicate, laying a napkin out beside his plate pre-emptively, but dives in with similar gusto. Silence falls over them while they eat their first few bites.

“I usually keep a pretty strict diet,” Tim says finally, “and the justice part is always good, but Bruce can be a little extreme with the health food. Not everyone can live off of spinach and chia seeds all the time.”

Jason nods in agreement as he polishes off the last bite of his burger. He shoves a couple of fries in his mouth, and moans obscenely when the taste of Cajun salt hits his tongue. Across the counter, Tim chokes a little on his burger and tries to cover it by taking a sip of whatever drink he’d ordered. Jason raises his eyebrows and slowly, seductively, licks the salt off each of his fingers. Tim’s eyes track the movement, absently bringing a hand up to run through his hair. The mullet is in fine form tonight, the short layers framing Tim’s face in a way that compliments his sharp jawline, the rich blackness deepening the hollows of his cheeks. The moment between them is charged, Jason with a finger in his mouth and Tim beginning to unconsciously mirror the movement with his own hand, and Jason decides to hell with all of this dancing around.

“So,” he says, leaning over the counter to bring his face closer to Tim’s, to feel his breath hot and fast against his own mouth. “What are we doing here, Timmy?”

Tim, to his credit, doesn’t blush or try to explain away the heat growing between them. He sort of nods to himself, like he’s giving himself an internal pep talk, and then fists a hand in the collar of Jason’s shirt and tugs him forward. The kiss is electric, hot and wet and messy, and Jason drinks in the sensation of Tim taking control of him, keeping him in place with a strong hand fisted in Jason’s hair. It’s dizzying, being consumed by Tim in this way, feeling Tim bite down on his bottom lip and soothe it with his tongue on the turn of a dime. The hand in his hair is both an anchor and a distraction, pulling at the short curls just a little too hard. Jason hisses in satisfaction, pulling away from Tim just to drink in the sight of him.

“Okay,” Jason mumbles, and he’s surprised to find that he’s a little out of breath. “We can do that.”

Tim smiles brightly, eyes wild and lips red. He looks like sin, wanton and alluring in the pale light of Jason’s kitchen. The distance between them, enforced by the kitchen island, is unacceptable, but before Jason can even think about bridging the gap Tim vaults gracefully over the counter. Tim’s control over his own body, the surprising strength he holds beneath that lithe frame, makes Jason a little weak at the knees. Wasting no time, Jason crowds Tim against the counter, one hand gripping tight on his hipbone and the other finally – _finally_ – coming up to thread through Tim’s hair.

Tim tips his head back as Jason presses their bodies together, leans down to lick a stripe up the younger man’s neck. Tim’s hands are everywhere – tangled in Jason’s hair, skimming the broad expanse of his shoulders, dragging nails down his chest, settling on his waist – as Jason sucks and bites and kisses his way down to Tim’s collarbone. His attention to Tim is worshipful and bruising, but Tim smells of sweat and vanilla and Jason’s finding it hard to pull away.

“Jay,” Tim breathes, resting a gentle hand on Jason’s jaw, guiding his mouth back up to his own. Jason growls and tightens his hold on Tim, grinding against him just to watch Tim’s pretty eyes flutter shut at the pressure. Jason typically prides himself on his stamina, but the strain of his cock against his pants is distractingly painful, and Jason wants to lay Tim out on a bed before their night comes to a worryingly short end.

“Bedroom?” Jason manages to ask in between open-mouthed kisses, and he feels more than hears Tim’s hum of agreement. He leans back and meets Tim’s gaze, not quite able to pull their bodies apart as well. Tim bites his bottom lip and tilts his hips forward ever so slightly, the almost imperceptible change in pressure against his cock tantalizingly hot. Jason offers Tim a breathless smile and is treated to one in return.

“Bedroom,” Tim agrees. Jason steals one final, heated kiss before taking Tim by the hand and practically dragging him to the other side of the apartment. Tim laughs and stumbles along, pausing only to pin Jason up against the wall just beyond the living room and cup him through his jeans. Jason groans and lets his head fall back against the wall, content to be distracted by Tim’s wiles. Tim takes a moment to return some of the love bites that Jason had left scattered across his neck while pressing the heel of his palm into the front of Jason’s jeans, rolling his hand to grip the bulge with deft fingers. Despite ample experience in the field of sex and sex-adjacent activities, Jason’s never felt this debauched in his life. Tim’s presence, despite his size and usual stealth, is all-consuming. But just when Jason thinks that maybe Tim will show him mercy and just blow him in the hallway, Tim’s warmth is gone and Jason has to force his eyes open.

In the dark of the hallway, Tim’s form is lit only by the light flooding in through the small window behind him. He looks ethereal, features carved from shadow in moonlight as he stares at Jason, sharp eyes roving over him as he drinks every inch of him in. Jason feels scrutinized under Tim’s gaze, knows how intelligent the other man is. Jason knows he must look wrecked, but Tim seems to enjoy looking at him all the same. Unable to stand the prolonged attention, Jason pushes himself off the wall and leads Tim into his bedroom.

The room is nothing special, more utilitarian than anything else, but Jason doesn’t have a chance to feel insecure about it because Tim is back in his space, filling him up. Tim attacks his mouth with an edge of desperation, shoving his hands underneath Jason’s shirt to lift it off. Jason takes advantage of Tim’s momentary distraction (Jason _does_ have a pretty fantastic chest) to push him gently toward the bed, thumbing his own pants open and shoving them off. Jason has no time for slow strip teases, needs to feel the entirety of Tim without the barrier of clothes made for combat. Tim strips his own shirt off and then falls back against the sheets, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Jason undress through lidded eyes.

“God, look at you,” Tim whispers. He’s palming his cock through his sweatpants, watching eagerly as Jason divests himself of the rest of his clothes. Jason leans over Tim, one arm curling around his waist, and kisses him slowly, sweetly.

“Can I?” Jason asks, gesturing to Tim’s sweatpants. Tim nods his consent, lifting his hips so Jason can slip the fabric down over his hips. Tim, much to Jason’s surprise and pleasure, isn’t wearing underwear. Jason looks up with a smirk and Tim shrugs self-deprecatingly.

“Your sultry stares aren’t exactly subtle, Jason. I thought I’d come prepared.”

Rather than feel embarrassed about the fact that he is clearly not as smooth as he thinks he is, Jason drops to his knees at the foot of his bed and takes Tim’s aching cock into his mouth. Tim reflexively bucks his hips up to meet the heat of Jason’s mouth, so Jason pins him to the bed with one strong arm lain across his stomach. Sucking cock is more art than science, a talent perfected with repeated and enthusiastic effort; Jason considers himself well learned. He teases moans out of Tim, rewards gasps with a wicked tongue, tugs impatiently at his own cock when Tim’s hits the back of Jason’s throat over and over again. Tim speaks as he shifts restlessly under the strain of Jason’s arm, sweet encouragements and devilish praise spilling out as he grips Jason’s hair and grasps at the sheets. Tim’s voice is a soothing melody, rich and musical in contrast to Jason’s rasping baritone, and Tim could be saying anything and it wouldn’t matter because just the sound has Jason grinding against his own hand, taking Tim impossibly deeper. Tim pulls Jason’s hair, says something that sounds like a warning, before Tim comes with a shout. Jason swallows dutifully, gently sucking and licking Tim through the aftershock, before finally pulling off and resting his cheek against Tim’s thigh.

“Jason,” Tim whines, and it’s a little breathless. Jason kisses his way back up to Tim, taking his time nipping at strong abs and pebbled nipples, before letting Tim taste himself on Jason’s lips. Without warning Tim expertly flips their position, Jason’s back hitting the bed in time with Tim reaching a hand down to grip his neglected cock. Jason moans and kisses Tim deeply, filthily, but allows Tim to trail his lips along Jason’s jaw, his neck, his chest. Tim must sense how far gone Jason is, because the pace of his hand is ruthless, stopping only to grip Jason’s balls and, _god_ , spit into his own palm before going back to jerk him off. Tim ravages Jason’s collarbone, the friction of his hand pumping Jason’s cock equally too much and absolutely, mind-blowingly perfect, and Jason can feel the pressure building in his abdomen so fast it’s dizzying.

Tim nips at Jason’s ear and whispers in that sweet voice of his, “You’re beautiful like this.” Jason brings a hand up to Tim’s hair, that ridiculous, horrifyingly sexy mullet that started all of this, and drags him into a fierce kiss. Jason comes, gasping into Tim’s mouth as he fucks into his fist, and presses his forehead against Tim’s as he comes down from the orgasm.

Tim curls up against Jason’s side, long fingers absently tracing patterns into his chest. They lie in companionable silence for a few minutes, catching their breath and dozing lazily. It feels right, Jason thinks, to have Tim fitted against him so perfectly. He hugs Tim a little tighter and drops a kiss to the crown of his head. They should probably talk about…whatever this is, but Jason doesn’t want to ruin the quiet and is, quite honestly, happy to ignore the issue as long as possible.

Tim, of course, has no such qualms and lifts his head up to look at Jason. Tim’s hair is sticking up wildly in all directions, but he meets Jason’s gaze seriously. “Can I ask…what – I mean, _why_ –”

“It was the mullet,” Jason replies bluntly, running a hand through Tim’s hair and letting it rest at the base of his neck. The look Tim gives him is incredulous.

“The _mullet_? That’s – I mean, most people think it’s cute in like a _funny_ way.”

Jason shakes his head minutely and wraps a finger around the hair flipping up at Tim’s neck. He gives it a light tug, watching with satisfaction as Tim’s pupils dilate.

“It’s hot. I spent a very long and lonely week fantasizing about it with only my hand for company. You’ve got a lot to make up for, Replacement.”

Tim’s brow furrows in confusion before he breaks into a shocked smile. “You mean to tell me that you were thinking about my _hair_ while you were –”

“Can we move on from this already?” Jason groans, but Tim is laughing, smile blinding and brilliant and given without reservation.

Jason has to smother the laughter with a bruising kiss.


End file.
